


Different

by AMyosotis



Series: WTNV Scripts [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, a made-up script for a fake episode of WTNV that never happened, what it says on the lid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6156718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMyosotis/pseuds/AMyosotis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything you are made of, all the matter that is now your skin and bones and muscle, was once something else. Was once somethings else. Everything you are was once crawling and chitinous, and waits for you to fall, so it can be squirming and new and so very many as it was once before. Welcome, to Night Vale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different

 

 

 

[Disparition plays]

 

 

 

A local family has announced that their son, Tim Doyle, is not actually their son. They say he looks like their son did, and that he sounds like their son did, but now there is something indescribably different about him. They say they noticed it when he came back from the City Council’s mandatory summer camp for children between the ages of 3½ and 6.

The family alerted the Sheriff's Secret Police early this morning, when they casually sidled up to an officer hiding by standing in the street and holding a potted plant, and muttered, “Sooooo, Timmy’s been acting kind of weird lately, right?”

“I mean,” they continued, “Weird enough that you guys could maybe take him down to the station, and shock his brain until he goes back to normal? Or, I dunno, spill his false blood onto a dowsing rod, then use that to track down the real Timmy? If he's actually some horrid imitation or whatever.

“Whatever it is you guys do.”

The officer they submitted their request to was busy visualizing herself photosynthesizing, as she is a committed method actor. It took her a few good moments to get out of that intense headspace, to come away from visions of proton pumps efficiently and tirelessly pulsing away and the elegant, delicate addition of phosphate groups to ADP, to the clumsy communication that is human speech.

Then she sighed dramatically and replied, “What? Are you, like, kidding me right now? Is _that_ what people think we do? You guys have some sick imaginations,” and skated away on a pair of vintage medieval Heelys. It is not yet known what, if anything, the Police will or can do to help the Doyles.

More on this situation as it happens to unfold, if it happens to unfold.

 

 

 

And now a word from our sponsors:

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in - Wait! Hold your breath.

Hold it…

Hooooolllld it…

Seriously, hold it, you do _not_ want to be breathing the invisible gas surrounding you right now.

…

Aaaand breathe out. Do not breathe in or out any more. That was it. You and your community used up all the oxygen allotted for this month.

[Wincing noise] That’s too bad. I mean, you all do have personal oxygen reserves, right? To not keep a vast reserve of the one thing we need every minute of every day to survive would be complete folly. So, I guess this is no big deal, I’m not even sure why we’re announcing it.

This has been an educational message from the Night Vale Scuba Shop, down by the docks. Half off on all oxygen tanks bought while hyperventilating in sheer terror.

 

 

 

Let’s have a look at traffic.

Yellow diamond-shaped signs have been popping up all over Night Vale, with big, bold, black letters that say: “DRIVE SLOW CHILDREN”. The WTNV Driving Safety Board - which was formed about forty minutes ago by fifth grader Jenny Trillby, wearing a _very_ smart suit and bowtie - has now claimed responsibility for them.

The Board would like to make clear that they are not advising children to drive slow. “That would be silly” the Board said, following up their statement with a cute giggle. No, the signs have been put up to advise slow children to drive more often.

“Drive, slow children” the Board said, her voice growing fiercer on each word, “finally you are faster, faster than all the others who picked you last on the playground; _run them over, slow children, DRIVE.”_

 She then jumped into a smart-car-sized truck with stick-shift, laughing under her breath, and sped off - presumably, to follow her own advice.

What a dashing young lady.

 

 

 

A few minutes ago, the City Council was seen soaring through the sky to the Sheriff's hover office, cleverly concealed by the taxidermied crows they held below them. They flapped the crows’ stiff, shining wings and said, “Caw! We are all crows!” in their typical hauntingly perfect unison. The dead birds' glass eyes gleamed bright in the sun.

A pair of Secret Police officers have now called an unrelated press conference. The shorter officer prefaced the conference by saying, “All police investigations are completely confidential, and therefore not connected to any branches of government and/or flocks of birds. Not even law enforcement. We are an independent community watch, as you all well know.”

He then stared meaningfully at the crowd of reporters and gawkers, until the crowd began saying, “Oh, yes. Of course! Mmmhmm,” and, “Definitely.”

After squinting suspiciously at the crowd for a few seconds, the officer said, “Good. Good. Anyway, we’ve checked out Tim Doyle, and he’s a normal human child - exactly the same as he was three months ago when he left for Summer Camp.

“ _Exactly_ the same. His bones and muscles and hair have not grown, he does not have any memories from after that day, and his cells have not divided to make new cells or died to make space for new cells. He has not changed. His cells do not seem to be able to divide, or die. He does not seem to be able to change.

“Sooooooo, yeah. Our investigation is concluded.” The shorter officer finished, fidgeting slightly with the podium. The taller officer stood silently beside him, unmoving, a steel mask with a long, thin nose covering his face. The bridge of the nose was sharpened to a fine, keen edge.

He did not move.

 

 

 

Let’s go to the Community Calendar!

Tuesday we will all be happy. We will all be unreasonably happy about everything that happens to us, and everything that does not happen to us. We will all be happy in the face of an unpredictable, uncontrollable, un-understandable finite yet infinite world, and it will _terrify_ us.

Wednesday morning, from 3-3:45 am, will be the bi-monthly “secret” Illuminati meeting. Those of you who uh [unsuccessfully hides a snicker] are members [breaks out in laughter while still talking] of the _Illuminati_ , [clears throat], uhm, should meet at the usual place and do your cute little handshakes that are a total secret to everyone else.

Thursday the staff of Dark Owl Records will be wearing Vocaloid costumes, and telling everyone who comes in that computer-synthesized voices are the future of music, with an unknown degree of sincerity.

This Friday is the end of the work week. Remember to feed your pets.

Saturday evening will be the first day of Night Vale’s annual bowling tournament! Your teams have been decided in the usual manner, and the prizes and punishments are the same as always. Pray your aim is good. Pray your team’s aim is good.

I am so psyched!

[Pause, then in a low, secretive voice] Pamela. Pamela, we need to meet up before then to practice throwing the ball down the lane and not at other players. Would Wednesday morning be good for you? Just, call me later or whatever. We’ll figure it out.

 

 

 NO. NO. NO.

That's... all there is. This message appeared on one of the many papers with softly glowing deep indigo runes that always cover my desk - no matter how many times I clear it off and put everything at neat right angles and point at it and say "NOW YOU BE GOOD, YOU HEAR ME?" before locking the door to the recording booth behind me. And no one else has the keys.

Well, besides Station Management, but I would know if they had been in here, believe me. [Short shudder] We would all know.

Anyway, it wasn't there before, so... I can only assume it's meant for me in this exact moment of space and time. Or it was there before, or it was always there, and I have just now noticed it at exactly the time and space I was meant to. Hopefully.

Either way, I guess the super exciting report on the battle betw- uh, on a now classified matter, has been canceled. Too bad listeners; it was definitely the most exciting thing I had lined up to report on all day. Oh, well.

I suppose we’ll go to a clip of a young adult silently breaking down in a law school bathroom, followed by the first ten seconds of the Cheers theme song, instead.

 

 

 

[20 seconds of people intermittently washing their hands followed by the first ten seconds of the Cheers theme song]

 

 

 

Breaking news. The Doyles are now petitioning the City Council to return their true son to them. They are doing this in the usual way, which is to say, they are dropping papers with their requests poked in braille into that trash can - the one with a hastily written cardboard sign saying “City Council Suggestion / Complaint Box” on it.

They are crying, but their tears are silent, angry tears. Tim hovers high in the air a few feet to the side of them, eyes glowing, and eating a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. On one of the papers, they’ve just written “Timmy used to be allergic to nuts, what is this monster you have returned to us” with no punctuation at the end.

Listeners? Not to undermine the authority of our helpful community watch, but it seems their investigation may have… skimmed over a few ways that Tim did in fact change when he went to summer camp.

Now, I know summer camp is a time of youthful exploration for us all - away from home and on our own for perhaps the first time - free to stay up all night playing truth or dare or slug with our peers. And we all come away changed from it. Coming away with level 2 electromagnetic powers is more common than you’d think! But losing an allergy?

Is it possible that all his cells would suddenly learn in unison to no longer team and fight and wound themselves over a food as benign as a nut? I… just don't know. You don’t know. We cannot know.

But I do know this. People are always changing in ways we cannot predict. They will never stop changing, and they will never change exactly the way we think they will - or hope they would - because we can never understand another person well enough to predict what paths they’ll take through this winding, dark maze we call life.

We cannot even know ourselves that well.

The only thing we can do is trust that the differences between our own internal concepts of our loved ones and who they truly are, are not so vast as to tear away our affection for them. Our feelings of friendship, or love, or familiarity.

And in the end, what differences we can and cannot stand to see our loved ones go through, what differences make or break our affection for them, is up to us. The Doyles have to decide if the ability to eat peanuts and/or peanut byproducts - _or_ , to manipulate electromagnetic forces with enough skill to repel himself from and bore into the crust of our planet - is enough to destroy their love for their son. If it’s such a change to his integral character that they will leave him to the… _civic minded care_ of our police force.

And we cannot make that decision for them. We can only change slowly ourselves, as we hope for the best for the Doyles, as we hope for the best for ourselves - as we always do - and as I take you to: [The Weather](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpvQXovrzyQ).

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _Great news_ , listeners. In response to the family’s petitions, a fair-haired and hollow-eyed child descended from the sky to the Doyles. She gently explained to them that peanuts are not actually nuts, so Tim was never allergic to them in the first place! They are, in fact, a peculiar variety of brussel sprout.

However, his allergies to nuts have also been cured. It turns out the City Council's mandatory summer camp for children between the ages of 3½ and 6 is part of a larger program, which aims to cut health costs for Night Vale residents in half. A whole week of the camp is spent on ritually introducing children to the allergens their bodies so foolishly overreact to, in hopes that their immune systems will just grow up and get their acts together already. His cells are still in shock from this, yes, but they will soon return to that inevitable chain of dividing into slightly less perfect cells over and over and over. He will be able to change. He will be able to change in ways that his family cannot predict, but hopefully, will love anyway. He is fine, and he may be fine in the future. And that is all any of us can hope for.

In any case, props to the city council for their concern over our little ‘burb’s health. I’ve just received word that the camp has a phenomenal 100% success rate, and an 82% survival rate. These figures are direct from the same child who counseled the Doyles; a few seconds ago she astral projected in to sign the message to me, smiling softly. That’s pretty impressive, the camp must have some fantastic doctors and nutritionists on staff. I... I'm glad my niece, Janice, was not born with allergies - but if she had been it's nice to know our City Council would be there for her! Please, citizens, if you children have allergies - be _sure_ to report them to the city council.

But for now, for tonight, rest easy knowing that one family is safe and united. That it is possible for a family to be safe and whole, if only for a moment.

 

 

 

Stay tuned next for the sound of snow falling on bare skin, melting less and less quickly as it piles up. Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know the breathe-in breathe-out bit sounds just like a bit from the latest episode, but I s2g I wrote it before then. 
> 
> If anyone wants to voice act this, you have my explicit and implicit permission. Just credit me for the script and message me on Tumblr so I can fall over in admiration of your beautiful, terrible, beautiful voice. How did you get that inhumanly perfect voice? I know, and now you know that I know. And now I must hide.


End file.
